


Listen to Your Heart

by oneswhonever



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Infidelity, Love/Hate, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rare Pairings, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-05 10:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneswhonever/pseuds/oneswhonever
Summary: Five people Stan Marsh never fell in love with, and one he did.





	1. Wendy Testaburger

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Basically this fic is going to be super self-indulgent, and also super angst in most places because that's just how I feel most days. Chapters are going to vary content-wise, naturally, so most warnings for any given one will be put in the notes beforehand. Also, chapters are going to serve as little one shots kind of, that will all add up to one big story, if that makes any sense.
> 
> Though Stan is with many people during this fic, Style will be endgame.
> 
> This chapter focuses on Stan/Wendy. It can be read a little differently, but be aware that it has some sexual content and that said content moderately dubious consent. 
> 
> Happy reading! xx

The thing is this: he's  _probably_  been in love with Wendy since the very first day he laid eyes on her. Stan recalled vividly the feeling of butterflies erupting in his stomach every time he saw her - and, actually, butterflies were probably too delicate of a way to describe the way his feelings progressed from there. It was more like elephants stomping around his insides. The rise of nausea brewing in his chest and up into his throat didn't seem to ever go away when she was around. She wasn't out of his league. They were actually a perfect fit. 

He wasn't any less nervous when they actually began to hang out, and he had to wonder why that was. He supposed it was normal. He wasn't the cocky football star everyone made him out to be, actually. He got nervous, and he got shy. Their first few dates he could hardly even pick at his food without wanting to throw up. He had known Wendy for so long, and yet, hanging out with her was almost the equivalent of hanging out with a complete stranger. 

"It's science, dude," Kenny told him, stretched out in the Marsh's guest room. He'd been staying with them since they were fifteen years old, and his shitty parents finally got their children taken away. It had taken little convincing for Stan's mom to let him move in - with the pending divorce and Shelly finally moved out of the house and off at college, Stan presumed that the house felt too empty for her liking, anyway. Stan liked having him around - of all the people to sit with when his thoughts got to be a little too much, Kenny was the best. He was content to sit in silence for as long as it took, kept Stan from falling off the deep end, but he still could call him a little bitch without worrying about what effect it might have on him (the answer: no effect at all, other than the fact that he was glad someone could treat him normally). "You like her, so you're nervous."

"It feels like it's more than that," Stan says meekly, twiddling his thumbs. He would go outside for a cigarette had his mother not been home. Smoking was a habit that Stan's  _dutiful_  father had picked up in the period that Stan referred to as "the beginning of the end," and he knew his mother absolutely hated everything about it. He felt guilty hiding this habit, but sometimes, he really did need one to stop the shaking of his hands. "When I'm with her, it's like I'm nervous, but not about... _us._ Fuck, this sounds so stupid saying it out loud."

"Go ahead, man. I'm listening."

"I mean," Stan stammered, wracking his brain for the right words to say. He dared to say that he almost felt vulnerable putting these kind of feelings on display, but it was certainly not unheard of for him. With the knowledge that Kenny was right by his side through his darkest times thus far, he was always able to carry on. There was no judgment here, Stan gently reminded himself. "It feels more like...this is what I'm  _supposed_ to feel for her. Do I like her, or do I like the idea of being  _with_ her? I feel obligated to be this doting boyfriend, because like, that's what everyone else wants to be, right?"

"Not me," is Kenny's reply, like it's just that easy. "You don't owe Wendy, or anyone else, anything. If you ever end up realizing that, I'm sure you'll be a lot happier. Once I realized that I didn't  _need_  to satisfy anyone besides myself...it's an eye-opener, man."

Stan wanted to take this logic to heart. It was good advice, after all. Time after time, however, he found himself always tagging along with everything that Wendy wanted him to do. Carry her books to class, help her pick out new clothes at the mall (which included an inevitable trip to Denver, because South Park truly had fuck all), go on double dates with her and whatever friend she was trying to set up on a given week. He was doing a good enough job, he reckoned, at fulfilling the role of a perfect boyfriend.

Evidently Wendy thought so, as well.

The first time she ever reached for his belt, he complied with ease. Stan was a teenage boy with needs, and Wendy was his smart, sexy girlfriend - there was absolutely no reason for him to not want to have sex with her. He  _wanted_  to want it. It took way longer than it should have to get him hard, and he was sure they both knew that much. With a gnarly hand cramp, Wendy pulled away after an agonizingly embarrassing amount of time, with tears brewing in her eyes. Stan was nearly to the point of tears himself, but he willed them back the best he could. All he could think about was her running off and telling her friends about how he was bad in bed and how he couldn't get a boner (she never did, she respected him far too much).

"Why don't you ever want to do anything with me, Stan?" Wendy asked, her voice weak. Stan longed for the girl with no fears, the girl who was strong and prideful - seeing her reduced to a sniveling and blushing mess was unprecedented. "Is it because you aren't attracted to me anymore? I thought this would make you happy. You never want to kiss, or do anything, or..."

"It's not you. It's me," Stan tried, and felt all that much worse when Wendy rolled her eyes. Of course she thought it was a cliche - when in reality, it was anything but. "I'm sorry. I think you're so beautiful, you know I do."

"Then why don't you ever want to touch me?" she asked, and Stan  _really_ wished he had a good answer. He owed her one. "All the girls thought that this was the way to liven up our relationship again. They can't get their boyfriends to  _stop_ touching them, and then you're over here, never in the mood. I just want to know why you don't want me like that. All I want is to satisfy you, and I feel like I can't."

Stan bit hard into his lower lip, hard enough to feel his blood rush through his teeth. "Maybe it doesn't have to be about me."

Stan knew that Wendy bragged to her friends about how well versed in oral he was. He was glad that they were on a better track. For the first day or two he remembered feeling uncomfortable thinking about that night, but every time his phone lit up and Wendy sent him pictures of her fading thigh hickeys, he thought it was kind of worth it. She didn't push sex on him so much now that she knew he could please her in other ways, ways that some boys probably couldn't. He wasn't able to feel very prideful about any of it. It felt weird to be proud of that.

He never breathed a word to his friends about the situation. They asked, a lot, but he wouldn't tell. When they were clueless as to how far Stan and Wendy had _actually_ gone, they could draw their own conclusions about it. Stan wished he could draw his own. It was unclear to him as to what actually classified as losing your virginity, versus what did not (the answer for Kenny: intercourse, or it doesn't count). Not that Stan cared much about whether he was a virgin or not; it was purely societal, after all. 

Wendy cared. 

The next time she tried having sex with Stan, she was a lot more successful. On a dizzy, drunken night, she untied his sweatpants, discarded her own shirt and tossed it across the room. Stan had more than a few objections about it. The first being that the taste of Effen Cucumber still clung to his breath. He was so drunk that his face was numb, and Wendy practically had to drag him into the room because he couldn't use his legs very well. He could hear the party happening downstairs - pounding music and drunken laughter. This was Clyde Donovan's bedroom. Wendy wanted to have sex with him in some other guy's bedroom. Nothing in this situation sat quite right with Stan, but for some reason, that was weird to him. 

"Don't think we should," he murmured, though it was falling mostly on deaf ears. Wendy seized either one of his hands and placed them, respectively, on either side of her waist, before returning to her task at hand - which, currently, was kissing up and down Stan's neck. Wendy loved hickeys, but Stan never cared to receive them. He much preferred giving them. "Wendy. Babe."

"Please stop talking, Stanley," she said, definitely more of a command. She pulled back and looked into his eyes, which were glazed over. She let out a soft huff through her nose, before lifting a hand to card it through Stan's thick mess of tangled hair, pushing it back. "You always know how to make me feel good, and I want to do that for you. I've been so worried."

"Worried," Stan repeated, voice slurred. He was so drunk that he could hardly comprehend the words coming out of his own damn mouth. He thought about how any man would kill to be in a situation like this. How a man in his state of intoxication would definitely take advantage of it. He thought, certainly not for the first time, that he did not deserve Wendy at all. "Don't be worried about me. I'm fine. I'm  _fine._ "

"I want to fix you, Stan. There is no problem that Wendy Testaburger cannot solve," she pressed her wine-stained lips to Stan's, briefly, before pulling back to look at him again. "I'll do it all for you, babe. You don't have to do a thing."

Stan can remember cumming. He can remember both of them being raw, red in the faces, digging their nails hard into one another. He can remember Wendy removing and discarding of the condom, seemingly satisfied as she curled up into his chest - very sore from the riding, but not feeling even an ounce of regret. Beyond that, the details were a bit of a haze. He blacked out about five minutes after.

When he woke up, he was on the floor of the Broflovski's bathroom. He would recognize this room anywhere. His head was swimming, and he could still taste the vodka on his breath, which was his indication that he was probably still drunk. He knew he had been drinking at Clyde's, and knew that he fell asleep with Wendy, so he was definitely confused - but definitely not for long. 

"Clyde was about ready to just toss you out into the snowbank," Kyle remarked as he leaned over the bathtub, holding his hand under the rushing water. Stan simply looked at him, unblinking. "He found you and Wendy together, in his bed. Said you guys made quite the mess. You puked all over his sheets. He's kind of pissed off at you, dude."

Stan stared at him, his eyebrows furrowing together. "I don't remember throwing up."

"I wouldn't think so," Kyle said, turning off the water. He knelt to Stan's level, wrapped an arm around his best friend's waist, and helped him get to his feet. "You should take off your clothes. Keep your boxers on. I don't need to see that." Stan did as he was told, though he didn't even remember them being put back on after having sex in the first place. He assumed it had to have been Wendy's doing. Kyle helped him step carefully into the bathtub. "Wendy said I should probably look after you. She's really fucking worried, man."

"So she said," Stan remarked, albeit a little bleakly. In the warm water, all he wanted was to lean back and sink. Kyle's supportive hand on his back kept him upright. "We had sex. Like, real sex."

"You have chunks of vomit in your hair," Kyle replied, monotone. He filled a plastic cup with water and began to wash it out. Stan realized that he was  _actually_ giving him a bath. "I'd be more concerned about that right now."

"You don't understand. She...really wanted to do it. It didn't feel right."

Kyle had little interest, and it wasn't hard to tell. "Was it not good, or whatever?"

"It was fine, I guess. I don't know what it's even  _supposed_ to feel like," Stan bit his lip, wondering where the honesty was coming from. Alcohol really did it for him sometimes, he guessed. "I don't know what to do anymore. I want to like her so fucking bad, and yet...I just _can't_. I don't have the love to offer her. Definitely not the kind she wants me to give."

"So you don't like her, but you still had sex?" Kyle quirked an eyebrow, but his face relaxed again when he saw the evident distress in Stan's eyes. He sighed, exasperated. "Stan, I really don't know what's going on up there, but you need to figure it out, and stop stringing her along. Even if you don't mean to, that's exactly what you're doing. People's hearts can only withstand so much love, so much feeling...maybe you're just not ready for that."

Stan took two things from that night. The first being that sex wasn't all that it was cracked up to be. The second being that the human heart was only capable of withstanding a certain amount of love (the answer for Kyle: all of it; the answer for Stan: almost none of it, at least none of that variant). He broke up with Wendy the next day, and expected tears, but didn't get any. 

"I saw it coming," she said, which definitely wasn't what Stan had been expecting. He didn't want to be regarded as the asshole who slept with girls and then broke their hearts, but Wendy was much more understanding than most people gave her credit for. "Stanley, I don't know what's going on up there, and I'll never claim to, but just because we're broken up now...that doesn't mean I care about you any less. You can always come to me for anything, ever. Please don't forget that I'm here for you, whatever you need."

And that was that. It stung, but Stan hadn't expected any less. 


	2. Gary Harrison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit of sexual content in this, but nothing too bad at all. It's just hinted at, mostly. 
> 
> This one was a little shorter and definitely not anything too terribly good, but it's mostly build-up for the next chapter, which I swear will be better and more eventful!

"I can hear you thinking," Stan murmured as lowly as he could possibly muster, voice cutting into the tense silence that lingered in the air - so thick that you could almost  _see_ it. Gary's sister is asleep in the room next to his, and his parents are asleep one floor above. They never closed the window when Stan first crept in, and the cold air is drifting in, biting at his exposed skin. Mostly, they're under the covers - but Stan grew to be tall, and his bare feet stuck out under the bedding. His nose and cheeks are flushed red, but neither of them have decided that it's important enough to get up for. 

"One of us has to," Gary whispered back, his breath close enough to hit Stan's lips. His eyes held something heavy, something that Stan couldn't recognize. Something that he could not even imagine feeling for himself. Gary is small enough that the majority of his body fits under the blankets just fine. His naked body is pressed up against Stan's in such a matter that no wiggle room is even possible. "I can't believe we just did that."

Stan definitely can't believe it either, but he can tell by the tone of the blond's voice that he isn't nearly as thrilled about their rendezvous as Gary is. That's not so much of a surprise, but Stan is certainly disappointed. The sex was okay. From what he can remember, it wasn't any better or worse than what he and Wendy had done together. It immediately threw all of his concepts out the window - about sex, and about sexuality. He had an idea, proposed at first by Kenny, that he was gay, and maybe that's why he wasn't able to feel strongly for Wendy. 

After this night, he could certainly say that he probably wasn't as straight as they came, but he didn't believe himself to be strictly gay, either. More than anything, he was just confused, and growing progressively concerned about the inner mechanisms of his mind, of his heart. His heart thumped ridiculously hard in his chest as he reasoned that he probably was some emotionless freak. 

"Me neither," Stan said, truthfully enough. He studied Gary's features for a brief moment, all the creases and folds from his obvious stress, before sighing and sitting up. "I should get going. It's late. My parents will freak if I'm not home soon, and yours will freak if they catch me in the morning."

Gary stuck out his lower lip, obviously upset, but they both knew there was no arguing with that logic. For Gary, it was their unfortunate reality that this was the only way they'd be able to see each other. For Stan, it was almost an escape. He hated to be the guy who came for the sex and left immediately after, but it certainly was not in his emotional capacity to have a serious discussion post-sex. 

"Fair enough," Gary sighed. He silently watched Stan scramble to put his clothes back on, and once the black-haired boy was readying to sneak back out the window, spoke up again. "I...I love you, Stan. Thank you."

Stan stared at him, unblinking. "...Huh?"

"I do," Gary said, a deep flush creeping up on his cheeks. Stan thought, in retrospect, that this had to be the weirdest part of the night thus far. Gary could be straight-faced with Stan's dick in him, but got embarrassed by a few weightless words? Stan knew, then, that he would probably never understand the way that normal humans processed their emotions. "And I get it, you know, if you're not ready to say it back. It can be a hard word for some people...but just...I want this to keep happening. I care for you a great deal."

Stan swallowed, hard, but the lump in his throat refused to go back down. "I...I'll see you at school."

The drive home was a quick one, and he ended up back in time for his curfew - which his mom had extended to midnight just after the divorce, in what Stan thought was a weak attempt to one-up life at his dad's (where he could snort cocaine off the coffee table, if he wanted, and it wouldn't be an issue). His mom was up, sitting at the kitchen table and mulling over a stack of papers. She had decided to "reinvent" herself after the divorce, and was taking classes at the local community college, hoping to get on track to obtained a psychology degree. Stan thought it was pointless, honestly, seeing as she already had a stable enough career - but it kept her busy, and seemed to keep her happy, so he kept his opinions to himself.

"Hi, mom," he greeted, sitting down at the table across from her. He wasn't sure why, but he had a strong desire to be around people, which was odd for him. He didn't consider himself introverted, not in the slightest; but typically when he was in a funk, he didn't care for the company of others. "How was your day?"

"Hi, Stanley," she acknowledged, looking up from her book and smiling. She seemed a lot brighter these days, her eyes much kinder. They held so much hate during the divorce, and the happiness definitely suited her better. Stan could certainly appreciate his mother's beauty in these instances. "Mine was fine. I got a lot done. I put away your clothes for you, by the way. They're all clean."

"Thanks," he smiled, but it was quick to fade from his face. He couldn't fathom why, but the rock that had settled in the pit of his stomach just wouldn't go away. He couldn't stop thinking about Gary, but damn it, he wanted to. He didn't want to think about the blond, or the stupid words that came out of his stupid mouth. He got up from the table, no longer in the mood for conversation. "I'm beat. Gonna turn in. Goodnight, mom."

His mom leaned in to give him a hug, gently pushing back his hair as she embraced her son. "Goodnight, Stan. I love you."

Stan bit the inside of his cheek, and managed a meek smile. As soon as they broke apart, he headed upstairs, shaking his head to himself. Of course he loved his mother, and of course he knew she loved him, but still - Gary was the only thing on his mind. That kind of love was sure different than a mother's love. Stan didn't need that kind of love. He didn't want it. 

Kenny was waiting for him when he got upstairs, leaning heavily against the banister, a dirty smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "There's the man of the hour. How was it? Figure anything out?"

Stan sighed, shouldering past his friend to try and head for the bathroom - not making it far before Kenny grabbed his arm, wanting details. "It was okay. I don't know. It was weird...Gary said he loves me."

A look of understanding came over Kenny's features, and the smirk disappeared. "Heavy." He studied Stan's somber expression carefully, before gingerly wrapping an arm around his friend's broad shoulders. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," Stan said, though there wasn't much strength in those words, nor in his voice. "I want to tell him how it is, you know? It wouldn't be fair for me to string him along and just act like I feel something for him when I don't. So, I guess more than anything I just feel bad for him. I just hope that he understands."

"Maybe you do have a heart, tinman."

As he headed back to his room, Stan thought that of course he had a heart - it was beating so damn hard he could hardly hear himself think, after all. 

He broke the news to Gary at school the next day, over a private lunch between the two of them under the bleachers. He had expected tears, and sure enough, they came like a tsunami. 

"I just don't understand what I did wrong," Gary said, his knees pulled tight to his chest, seemingly trying to make himself seem smaller. He was a pathetic scene, with snot dripping from his nostrils and tears rolling down his cheeks, jaw, and neck. He didn't give Stan the chance to speak before he was back to blubbering. "What part didn't you like? It was my first time with a guy, and I know it was yours, too. Maybe we just did it wrong. Stan, I can fix this. I swear I can."

Stan was getting a little tired of people saying they could fix things. Whatever was going on in Stan's head, in his heart - he was convinced that none of it was fixable. And if it was, it wasn't fixable by anyone other than himself. It made it seem like he was the broken one, and everyone could see it. He wanted to know what was wrong with himself just as much as everyone else wanted to know, if not more so.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Stan muttered, feeling his own cheeks heat up. He didn't know what he had to be ashamed of, but he was feeling exposed. He didn't know how to explain himself. He knew he owed Gary some kind of explanation, but he truly couldn't think of one. "It's...it had nothing to do with the sex, okay? I just...I don't feel that way. I wish I did, and I just...I don't. I can't." He lowered his voice, though they were the only two outside. "I...I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm sorry."

Gary scoffed, and got to his feet - evidently weak in the knees due to the swaying. "Well, you better sort yourself out before you end up hurting anyone else, Stan. I gave up a lot for you. My own  _faith._ Just for you to use me, then leave me. You're a real piece of work, Marsh."

Before Stan could tell him that wasn't the case in the slightest, Gary was walking away from him. Probably best that, Stan considered - he didn't want to hurt people. Sorting himself out seemed like a great idea. 

If only he could. 

 


End file.
